A Lady's Choice
by Inactive-Account1276
Summary: In Regency era England, Clint Barton, a stable hand and farm boy, meets accomplished lady and sees something different in her. She is not who society thinks she is, she's not happy to be conforming to her mother and her wishes. Clintasha AU. (Does feature the Avengers)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome to Regency era England, think Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, etc. This is shorter than what an ordinary chapter would be, think of it as a taster. Inspired after I finished Jane Eyre, began reading Pride and Prejudice and watched the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice. Does contain references to Pride and Prejudice. Please review at the end!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any publicly recognisable character or references. **

* * *

Clint's looking around, and he can _feel_ that he doesn't belong here, it's that he looks different or that people keep asking him for drinks, or stopping him to get a drink from his tray. He can just _feel_ that he is poor, that these people are looking down on him for not being as good as they are. And Clint does honestly not know how his father and mother can stand this day in and day out.

Still, his father asked for help and so Clint obliged, even though the white wig was itchy, he'd never worn such fancy clothing in his life, or so many layers of it, and the room was full of middle and upper class people, who laughed too loud, talked too much, and definitely required too many drinks for his liking. The worst part was probably all the mothers, all looking for eligible bachelors to marry their daughters to for connections. Clint had been eyed up by several of them, until they'd spotted the drinks tray and looked away disdainfully.

"And now everybody, my daughter will play the pianoforte for you, and sing! She is quite accomplished, certainly the best player in Derbyshire!" Announced a plump woman from the front of the ballroom, a younger girl stood beside her, presumably her daughter, cringed and muttered something under her breath. However, she took a seat at the pianoforte and opened the lid. Clint hid his tray under a chair temporarily, along with the wig, and moved closer to see her play. His head felt oddly light now, even though his own hair was far too long for his liking.

The girl began playing the pianoforte, beautifully he had to admit, her mother had been right. Clint studied her, she didn't seem to be shy, judging by her elegant posture, but the way she let a few curls of her dark auburn hair fall across her face suggested she wanted to be invisible. But the chances of such a handsome lady becoming inconspicuous were highly slim, at least Clint thought so anyway. He'd definitely notice this girl anywhere. Her porcelain skin almost matched the ivory of her dress, and the white, lace gloves on her hands blended in, to the point where it simply looked as if there was a silvery pattern etched on her skin.

The girl looked up suddenly, and her eyes met Clint's. A shocking green, he noted. Cheekily, he waved then bowed slightly. The girl appeared to have a battle over appearing indignant or smiling, and the result was a half smile, that stayed put as she opened her mouth and began singing. Again, her mother was right as the girl's voice filled every corner of the room, but kept in the gentle feel of the song. There was a hushed silence, and Clint could practically taste the awe of everyone in the room.

When she finally finished, there was rapturous applause, even from Clint himself. He couldn't help but be impressed, this girl was definitely something else. The girl stood and curtsied, when she rose, the girl whispered something in her mother's ear, and her mother nodded. She looked backed over at him, and mouthed what Clint determined to be 'follow me'. The quartet in the corner started back up, along with the dancing, and the girl moved, towards Clint, sharing brief words and smiles with people as she did, then to the left and out a door. Clint paused, it would look more conspicuous if he immediately left from the same door. Then he left, leaving his wig and tray under the intricately carved golden and white chair.

* * *

It took Clint a moment to spot the girl, but then he saw her, leaning against the railing of the elevated veranda. Her back was to him and the building, her back straight and her face tilted towards the dark sky, illuminated with stars. He walked over, and copied her way of leaning against it. She didn't say anything, so Clint decided to start.

"Forgive me if this is impudent, but I cannot help but agree with your mother, you're certainly the most accomplished, and most agreeable, lady in the whole of Derbyshire," Clint said, starting with a compliment, like the smooth talker he was. Her head dropped, and the girl rolled her eyes and smiled cynically, then turned to him. At such close range, Clint couldn't help but be shocked by her beauty, and his breath caught.

"Why don't I know you?" She asked, "I at least _recognise_ everyone here, either my mother has pointed out every rich man or I know them myself. But you? I've never seen you before tonight."

Clint didn't want to own up to his poor breeding and inferior rank just yet, not when he'd just met this beautiful girl. So, he took a step back and bowed politely.

"I'm Mr Barton, of Harewood House, in Yorkshire," He said, "My father brought me here, hoping I'd make an acquaintance worthy of marriage in the future."

"Well, Mr Barton, your impertinence is forgiven on the basis of your deceit. Do you think me a fool, so soon after you have indeed met my acquaintance?" The girl smirked. Clint felt his blood run cold, and he froze.

"See, Mr Barton, unless you've also used an alias, just by looking at the quality of the material your jacket is made of, your tan skin, I can see you are not who you claim to be," She explained, "So, beg tell, who are you really?"

Clint looked at her face, she didn't appear to be angry, upset, or in any mind of dragging out someone to force him out. While he wasn't ashamed of his inferior birth, it didn't appeal to him to be felt less than an equal to this girl. However, since she'd already established he was, there was no point in trying to continue his lie.

"My name is Clint Barton, that much I was truthful to, but the rest I admit, was deceitful. I manage a farm about four miles from here, and also attend to the stables of Mr Stark. I feared my inferiority would make me less tolerable to you. The quickness of your observation would no doubt result in your affected judgement of me, I didn't know before you possessed this particular talent, I ask for your forgiveness, and hope your opinion is reversible."

The girl stood silently for another moment, analysing him, and Clint held his breath as her eyes seemed to earth out everything about him. Finally, she nodded.

"You meant well, let's continue your untruth, Mr Barton, I'm sure my mother wouldn't mind me dancing with you, as long as you remain the master of Harewood Hall," The girl smiled slightly once more, "Unless, that is, you do not wish to dance with me?"

Clint rapidly shook his head, this girl intrigued him, and dancing would offer another chance to talk with her alone.

"I would love to have the next dance with you, Miss...?"

"One would think you are estranged from the world, Mr Barton, as my family are almost as well known in this area as the Darcys, and only minutely poorer," She teased, Darcy, there was a name that Clint recognised, "I am Miss Romanoff, Natasha Romanoff, this is my formal introduction to you." The girl -Natasha, began to walk away, back into her home. She paused, with one hand on the door handle, and turned only her face to him.

"Don't forget, Mr Barton, your next dance, belongs to me,"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I think I ran out of life a while back, not physically ****_obviously, _****but perhaps in my head a little. But I'm back now! Yay! I'm going on holiday to Italy this Friday, but after that I have a whole week to write stuff! Enjoy, and I am sorry it took so long to post!**

* * *

Clint steps back into the crowded room a little over five minutes later, he is unnoticed by anyone, and blends in. He can't see either of his parents, and can only assume they have swapped to greet latecomers to the ball. Clint makes his way to the dancing sidelines, and joins in the clapping with a smile. It is easy to get lost, he thinks, to forget yourself in such an atmosphere as this. He scans the room until he finds the vibrant of hair of Miss Romanoff. She stands out, and he finds her quickly. Currently, she is talking to her mother and father. Natasha glances up, as if she feels Clint's gaze, and meets his eyes.

"Come here," She mouths, and beckons him forward with her hand. Clint cuts through the dancing couples and makes his way up the hall to Miss Romanoff and her parents. When he arrives, Miss Romanoff introduces him as Clinton Barton, of Harewood Hall in Yorkshire. Clint has supposedly just returned from a holiday overseas, impressing Mrs Romanoff deeply and explaining his tan. Fortunately, Mr and Mrs Romanoff do not seem to possess their daughter's observational skills, and do not comment on the quality of Clint's clothing.

"But, my dear, wherever did you meet him?" Mrs Romanoff asks, "I've had no formal introduction from any member of the Harewood Hall party." Clint is about to open his mouth, and tell her some unconvincing lie, but Miss Romanoff beats him to it.

"Why, it's the most interesting story, Mother," She smiles softly, as if remembering something pleasant, "I was outside walking, enjoying the fresh air, and I tripped down the step into the gardens. Mr Barton promptly caught me and righted me to my feet. To say he saved my life would not be an understatement, how could I refute his offer of a dance after that?" Clint is impressed, her mother buys right into the story, instantly cooing over Clint and asking about his fortune. Clint absentmindedly replies that it is large, only sending Mrs Romanoff into further hysterics. Just then, the song finishes, and Clint is being dragged away by Miss Romanoff, who is babbling nonsense to her mother about their dance.

Clint stands opposite Natasha, who wears a neutral face, and they wait for the music to begin. The quartet starts, and Clint steps forward carefully. He has had few opportunities to dance, and it has been a while.

"You accuse me of deceit, but your tongue is one thick with lies, Miss Romanoff," Clint teases quietly, "It is a wonder your face does not burn as brightly as your hair."

"Strict parents raise the best liars, Mr Barton," She replies, "I think perhaps your parents have been too lax in disciplining you." Then Miss Romanoff's hand is on his, as they follow the simplistic dance steps.

"My parents have not treated me as a child since I was ten and two," Clint says slowly, "Therefore, I have not been punished strictly enough to instill a deceitful tongue in me."

"I do not often get to talk to men alone, Mr Barton," Miss Romanoff replies, seemingly changing the subject, "And even then, they are not often men I have chosen to speak with privately." She faces him and smiles.

"You are the most agreeable woman in the room," Clint replies, "There is no shortage of men waiting to speak with you. Perhaps it is their inferior and disagreeable appearances that delivers you from their fancies, maybe the poor dancing we are currently surrounded by." Miss Romanoff frowns.

"You speak poorly of others, when you are not meant to be here yourself," She says. Clint feels like he's been punched in the chest, he hadn't meant it that way at all. But he is not one to leave an argument unless he has won.

"And yet, I am the one you chose to dance with?" Clint says with raised brows. Miss Romanoff stares at him coldly.

"Is it a choice I am to come to regret?" She replies, her body language changes, Miss Romanoff has become much less appealing to Clint. Clint doesn't have a reply, but is saved when the music stops. Miss Romanoff snatches her hand from Clint's ungraciously and glares at him.

"I think you ought to leave," She says. For a moment, her face twists, and she seems almost disappointed. Then she pastes on a smile and joins the others in clapping the string quartet. Clint shakes his head and does as she suggests. Miss Romanoff, is apparently different than what he'd assumed. The walk to the exit takes longer than it should, as Clint is forced to weave between the packed bodies in the ballroom.

When he gets outside, Clint spots his father, opening doors for people richer than him. Clint slips into the darkness and finds the only horse his family fully own. The air is cold and refreshing, and the wind blows back Clint's jacket, making it flap noisily in the wind. It should make him forget, free him, but the image of the girl with flames for hair follow him home.

* * *

It is two weeks later when Clint sees her again, she is unmistakable, even from his view of her from the paddock. She doesn't see him, simply because she doesn't look. But Clint is intrigued, not for her reasons for being here - the rich families often socialised together- but about the mysterious figure who follows her out of their shared carriage and into Stark's house.

Clint leads the horse towards the stable, situated too far from Stark's house for Clint's liking. It means he has to walk further to tell a member of the Stark family he's done, then head back the same way anyway. He's saved from this duty today, apparently, as Tony Stark leads out his guests, his wife, Miss Pepper, chatting animatedly to Miss Romanoff. The ladies share similar features, but Miss Romanoff outshines Mrs Stark in every way. It is impossible not to notice that the emerald green Spencer jacket she wears bring out her eyes, the dress she wears ripples in the gentle wind, and her hair is contained by a bonnet. Her parasol protects her from the morning sun, it is oddly warm for May. As the party approaches Clint, now undoubtedly heading towards him, he becomes aware of the sweat beading across his forehead, his rolled up sleeves of his most tattered shirt.

"Barton!" Mr Stark calls cheerily. Tony, the new master of the house, is much more friendly than his parents, who were cold and stoic, but left everything to their only son.

"Mr Stark," Clint says evenly. They come ever closer, and Clint has the opportunity to scrutinise the man he hasn't met before. He is dashing, certainly, Clint must admit. Pale skin, the bone structure to rival a god and lean muscle that is evident even under his layers of clothing. The man carries a golden cane, his black hair covered somewhat by his hat, and he also wears green clothing. He is striking, handsome, but Clint feels the coldness seeping into his bones just by looking at the elegant man. This man is not a good person, he decides.

"Barton," Tony says again once he and his party have reached Clint, "Show my friends your tricks." Clint catches Mrs Stark's disapproving look in the background, she insists on treating Clint as an equal, but he vaults onto the unsaddled horse anyway. The nameless man already looks slightly impressed, Clint notes, but Natasha refuses to meet his eye and keeps a clean poker face.

Clint prompts the horse to move, and the black stallion darts forward. It takes a moment for Clint to get his bearings, but he has done this dozens of times prior to now, it is not difficult. Once the horse has slowed to a trot, Clint slowly gets up, until he is standing on the moving horses back. He must focus now, there is no time for checking faces. Clint clicks his tongue, and the horse moves faster. There is light applause, and Clint sits down before his pride gets the better of him and he falls. When he gets back, Mr Stark is beaming proudly and pats Clint on the back.

"Where did you learn that skill? I wonder if perhaps you were brought up in a circus," The anonymous man asks.

"I've spent a lifetime with horses, no one gets anywhere without taking a few risks," Clint tells him. The man nods, obviously impressed.

"Natasha," He says quietly, and Clint isn't oblivious to the way he gently touches her arm, "Perhaps we ought to go in, you know of my dislike to hot weather." Mr Stark catches the hint and turns to walk away, but Miss Romanoff doesn't move.

"No," She says firmly, "You may all go in, in fact I urge you to do so, I would like to stay with the horses for a moment." Clint notes the incredulous look on the man's face, and guesses Miss Romanoff's defiance is something that does not happen often, if at all. But he leaves all the same, the Starks going with him. Miss Romanoff waits until they are out of earshot, before looking at Clint's face.

"You are not stupid," She says. Clint feels he should stay silent, and remains so. Miss Romanoff moves to the horse, and gently runs her gloved hand along it's coat.

"That man, is Loki Odinson," She says in an even voice, "We are to be engaged in less than two months. He is not the sole, or main, heir of the Odinson fortune, but the sum he will receive upon his father's death is acceptable enough. The marriage, and I sense you've realised this, is not for the money, it is for the name. Natasha Odinson will be someone important, and it binds the Romanoff and Odinson fortunes together. It is rumoured he's a bastard, you know." Miss Romanoff finally looks up from the horse.

"Why are you telling me this? You made your distaste for me evident enough," Clint says, he will not drop his guard, not for a moment. This girl has a silver tongue, she will crush him should she find out his feelings for her. Feelings that he himself is not yet sure of. Miss Romanoff takes her time to reply.

"I think," She says slowly, "That pressure and expectations want to make us people we are not."


End file.
